Memories of Mary McDonald's Sister
by ericoides
Summary: Mary's sister remembers a fellow student.


3123 words

I had a crush on Severus Snape.

Witch Weekly is having one of those fiftieth retrospectives on various famous folks from Voldie's War, and providently for them, most of the war heroes were all born about the same time: a couple of years ahead of me. So they can run this feature, every few months. Very convenient for them.

But I gather he's been one of the more popular entries.

You wouldn't, on the face of it, think of Sev as one of the more appealing candidates--Sirius Black was much better looking, Lily and James Potter were far more feted (and so tragic too), and Remus Lupin is much more socially graceful. I suppose it's the romance surrounding his role, that of a spy. For years! As a hated teacher at Hogwarts!

What they don't usually emphasize--and I suppose they must suppress it, or perhaps too many people that lived and knew him then have died--is that he was mad for Lily Evans. Of course, once rich, good-looking, socially adept Potter took an interest in her, poor old poverty-stricken Sev never stood a chance. _I_ could've told him that, if he'd bothered to ask me, which of course he didn't; and why would he, with his eyes fixed on the brightest, most beautiful girl of her year?

I know this because she was best friends with my older sister, Mary; the wanted one. My mum wasn't really all that keen on children; she had 'em because that's what you do, if you're a witch. She had her heir and a spare and her darling pretty girl child to dress up, and figured she was done; and then she had me. I was the plain one, so destined, I do believe, from the moment I was born; else why was I called Jane, when my siblings were Joseph, John and Mary? I would've preferred to be called Hezibah, or even Jezebel, than to be a fat, frumpy Jane.

But Jane I was, and, once my courses flowed, I got even fatter; I look back at the photos of me then, awkward and shy, and realize that I wasn't; not really. But the other children knew those taunts would reduce me to tears, and my ethereal mother couldn't help comparing me, dark haired, swarthy skinned, stocky boned, to her delicate golden girl, and like a lot of sullen children, if I couldn't prove them wrong, by Merlin I'd prove them right.

And so now I truly am. Fat, that is.

And Mary and Lily--Sev too--are all dead, heroes in Voldie's wars. Ironic, innit, that the pretty ones died young. Severus, of course, grew up so dirt-poor he never saw an indoor loo, my sister said Lily told her, till he visited her. (Lily that is. Lily was muggleborn, and the first witch Sev met, apparently.) And it showed, in his greasy ill-kempt hair and crooked ill-treated teeth and spotted oily ill-cared-for skin. So he lasted a little longer, though death before you're forty still counts as cut down young in my book. --He did actually clean himself up, a bit, when he was a third year; that's when the crush struck, when he was 14 and I was 12. Of course, after that humiliating episode in fifth year, he started letting his hygiene slide again, but by then my eyes had been opened to the potential.

And I'd learnt, oh yes I'd learnt, not to aspire to the pretty boys. Sev was counted plain, you see. I didn't agree--I've always had a thing for thin tall dark men--but he was unpopular, and therefore not unreasonable. And being outcast, he came in for plenty of teasing, but let me tell you, just because the girls didn't string up their rivals and strip them to their underpants didn't mean we weren't subject to it; girls use words rather than actions, and if our cruelties weren't school legend, a thousand cuts will humiliate you just as bad, and if anything hurt worse, because it _never, ever_ stops.

You mustn't think I was some sort of crusader for justice; I laughed when Sev was strung up, and I taunted the girls even uglier than I; because that's what you did: keep your head down, and hoped like hades you weren't shoved to the bottom of the scrum. Not until years later would I learn, in an academic way, how groups enforce their hierarchical cruelties, how they propagate their injustices. I was just a collie, like everyone else, hoping to avoid the spotlight. And that, I managed. Of course it also meant Sev never noticed the fat awkward Ravenclaw sister two years junior to his beloved's best friend--though if he paid the slightest attention to me, I could've warned him that laughing at Mary's mishaps at Slytherin hands was a terrible mistake.

I could've warned him that Lily wouldn't take kindly to his calling her mudblood.

***

My father, right up to the end of his life, said he never regretted any of his decisions; that he wouldn't change of a thing about the way he'd lived his life. Back then I thought that a statement to admire because you can't change the past, so why beat yourself up for it? So for many years, I wished to emulate that acceptance; though now I don't wonder if there isn't a bit of hubris to that statement.

Because he was a poor wizard who grew up to make good, with a happy marriage and a pretty wife and successful heirs (even his disappointing fourth child at least managed to get herself properly married off in the timely fashion) why _should_ he regret his choices?

But I know Sev never really recovered from losing Lily; I used to watch him. Oh, I tried talking to him a few times; but after several crushing setdowns, I gave up: I'd had a lot of practice, trying to get the attention of those who didn't want it--my mum in particular--and knew when to call it quits. But I could still look. At first I was afraid everyone would see my crush; but as long as I kept my expression flat, no-one noticed where my fat face was turned.

He regretted losing Lily. Deeply. To the end of his life, I think.

Dumbledore, of course, is credited with masterminding Voldie's defeat; how he installed the great Harry Potter in his muggle relative's home that he might grow up ignorant of his fame, and sympathetic to muggles and muggleborn Voldie wanted to extirpate. Equally the great wizard is credited with cleverly installing the Death Eater as a spy and protector of that same Harry. So clever of the headmaster! To recruit one of Voldie's own, and _trust_ him. Naturally, Sev had to pretend he hated Harry, to keep his cover. And how Sev had hated James, so it made perfect sense he'd hate Jame's lookalike son. So very, very, clever.

We were all fooled. I remember telling my daughter--who encountered Snape the potions master when Harry was a fifth year--not to let the sour teacher bother her. I didn't tell my child I'd had a crush on that man, years before. Indeed I wondered how I could have, after some of my darling girl's stories. That pity turned to horror, of course when Snape slaughtered him, Albus Dumbledore, greatest white wizard of the century. So much for trust! Dead at the Death Eater's hands! Killed by the snake he'd taken to his bosom!

And I like the rest shook my head when Snape killed Dumbledore. Not that I thought Dumbledore was the great white hope everyone else has persisted in painting him. But for his precious Order I'd still have my sister. We hadn't a great deal in common, and we surely didn't like each other much; but I did love her, in my way, and she in hers, little would you have believed it, watching us sniping and squabbling at each other. Not helped, of course, by my mum, who even to this day has what can only be called a shrine dedicated to her golden girl.

My mum and I don't talk anymore. I've learned to set boundaries, and I can't cope with a witch who would've preferred my death to her other daughter's. I understand her feelings, but I won't expose myself to them. Thank merlin, my mother-in-law is a treasure; indeed both my inlaws have given me the love and affection they've showered on their own children. Them welcoming me put the seal on my affection for the man I chose to marry.

But I still resent that Dumbledore took my sister before we ever came to an understanding. As I believe we might have, over time. My brothers don't talk to me either; they took mum's side. Dumbledore cost me my family.

And honestly? I didn't think the boy I'd crushed on was a murderer, though I admit my bitterness over my sister made me more forgiving than the average person. Still, I recognize people do become bitter. Not that I would know anything about _that_!

But my husband's American cousin, after he divorced, turned truly nasty. Pity, I thought. That he'd turned rotten. Sev, I mean. Well, Mark too, for that matter. I admit, I entertained brief fantasies that, had Sev only turned to me--or indeed any other girl--instead of pining after Lily and loathing James, he might've turned out all right. But he didn't. I never suspected, not for a minute, that he wasn't just as evil as everyone expected. Even now I go with the flow. My thinking usually follows consensus. I keep my head down, however independent I like to think I might be, in my secret heart.

Those were dark times, when people were being killed, burnt out of their shops, hunted down. Ten years on, it seems as if most folks have forgotten, as if it were all a bad dream. Well, it turns out, evidently (or so that Granger girl claims) that it was all ruse--that Sev killed the headmaster as part of some involved (and insane sounding, if you ask me) scheme to trap Voldie. I don't quite understand how all that was supposed to work, but it's true enough that Harry Potter did indeed defeat Voldie.

And all the while, I kept my head down. Hoped the death eaters wouldn't come for me, the sister of a known opponent to them, while I reared my two-point-one children, cleaned up after the dog, the cat, the husband. He's not a bad sort, really. Indeed, I lucked out far more than I had any right to expect, foolishly marrying out of school like that. But it was what my parents wanted me to do, what society expected me to do; so that's what I did. Henry like me is short, balding, fat, not unkind. Likes quidditch and has actually taught me enough of the game that I can appreciate it as way to socialize. Gives me enough housekeeping money that I can pursue my hobby of dying and spinning fleeces. Doesn't complain, as long as I keep the place neat, and if he's a bit boring in bed, at least he cares enough to think of my enjoyment as well as his own. That's more than a lot of witches can claim.

I had a dream once, you know. Of developing a line of magical clothing, that shifted colour, to flatter the figure, most especially to shift colour depending upon the lighting, your skin tones and the like. I was never the potions prodigy Sev or Lily was, but I enjoyed it. That was one of my fantasies, you know. That Sev and I would develop these dyes together. Silly, I know.

Looking back, I doubt, even if Sev had been able to give up Lily, we would've lasted very long as an item. I appreciated his intellect, but I was far too thin-skinned, in those days, to have appreciated his cutting sarcastic humor. But still, even so, I wonder; would I treasure those memories, of a brief romantic coupling, even if it didn't last?

I like to think so.

I _am_ grateful for my life. Always, always, I kept my head down. I didn't, like my sister, feel the pull of joining Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix, and I certainly wasn't attracted to the Death Eaters. They both struck me as rather dangerous; and indeed they were. Funny. One attracted, almost exclusively, Slytherins, and the other Gryffindors; well, you stop and think about it, almost all the people _I_ heard that joined either one, did so right out of high school. After all, most adults don't even think of their house affiliation, till it gets to be time to send their children to school.

I admit, to my shame, that I encouraged my child to the women's houses, Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. Honestly, what should it matter, any more than whether your eyes are green or blue or brown or grey?

They say had Voldie won, our world would have become a horror. Perhaps. Myself, it always struck me, listening to Mary's stories, that the Order wasn't all _that_ much better than the Death Eaters, just two rival gangs duking it out, like in the American muggle musical, that remake of Romeo and Juliet. (Ah me, I've never appreciated _proper_ literature--but I've quite a fondness for muggle musicals. One of the joys of getting old is not having to apologize for one's prole tastes.)

There's a _reason_, my Henry says, that armies like to get kids young; before they're old enough to think for themselves. I'm not brave, and I guess that's what saved me. Henry's like my life in a lot of ways: not terribly exciting, but pleasant enough. Satisfactory, mostly. But sometimes, I still regret. One of those times, several years ago, I wandered into the local muggle library and discovered the internet. I don't even remember why I tried it--frustrated by my kid, or my husband's performance in bed, hades I don't know--but I discovered a whole new world: activism.

All the fire that possessed Lily and my sister when we were teenagers came to me a decade and more later. In muggle blogs, would you believe, where sweet young things barely older than my daughter agitate--for women, for persons of colour, for the disabled...for the fat. I had no idea.

But there they are, and they opened horizons I'd never considered. I mean, the wizarding world has barely acknowledged that muggles are people, too, deserving of the same rights as we, as opposed to cattle, ripe for obliviation lest they discover our terrible secret: that they are _all_ disabled losers in our eyes. Let alone feminism, or fat acceptance. I'll never be perfect, but I can look in the mirror and not feel revolted; sometimes, on a good day, I even feel beautiful. If I met Severus Snape now, I could smile at him, and feel I had something to offer (were I still single, of course.)

Ah. Now I remember: I was frustrated with my child. She's got exactly my figure type: protruding abdomen, thick waist, round arms. I wanted her to feel _good_ about herself. For she also has a glorious complexion, thick glossy waves long enough to sit upon and lovely blue-grey eyes. I might've been pretty--as I've come to believe _all_ people are, if you look hard and deep enough--had my mum only encouraged me. I might've developed that splendid line of clothing, if only someone had encouraged me.

I might pursued Severus, if only I'd had a bit more self-confidence.

_That_ was what I was looking for, in the library, some way to instill that into my child.

Sev's dad was a drunk, his mum hopeless. Or so Lily told Mary. She was probably exaggerating, but I suspect that, like me, his parents tolerated but did not truly rejoice in him. I can't say, like some other people I've encountered, that I'd been better off not being born; but I know what it's like. And what _would_ he have been like, had someone really loved him as a child? I still have time. To get my life in order. To be loved and loving. And I am, slowly, achieving both. I've even developed a bit of fame, amongst witches who knit, for my yarns. I could still do something with my life: my daughter will be grown and gone soon.

I've told her, she doesn't need to marry right out of Hogwarts. Indeed, that she doesn't need to marry at all. Or have children, unless she truly wants them. I can't free her of society's expectations, but I hope she'll have the courage to pursue her dreams. And...I think she will. So that, should she meet a quiet black haired boy with a big nose, well, she's got the confidence to pursue him--or whatever else she wants--with out settling.

And I?

Well, I was happy to learn that Sev was a hero after all. I still think he would have been better off recovering from Lily, and making an ordinary sort of life for himself; but he was a Slytherin, and ambitious, after all. The poor so often are. I don't believe in the afterworld; not really--but at least he's left a reputation behind, and I suppose that's better than being forgotten, as I'll almost certainly be.

And sometimes, when I'm alone, I think back, to when when I was young and pretty (though I didn't realize) and dream. Just for a bit. Nothing too lurid: just the two of us, walking hand in hand, talking about this plant or the other; or down in the dungeons, brewing.

I won't be sending this in to Witch Weekly. What do they care about my regrets?

For I am a woman, and fat, and my choices are constrained the way my father's never were. I have made peace with my life; but I do not think I shall ever be able to say I wouldn't change things, if I could go back.

For in my changed world, we might not--indeed almost certainly would not--be lovers nor even friends--perhaps acquaintances, for the wizarding world is a surprizingly small community--but...perhaps he'd still be alive.

And when I thought of my first real crush, I'd be wishing him a pleasant, satisfactory life, wherever he was.

Instead of mourning for a man over a decade dead.

A/N: never tell me not to do something (in this case, no mary sues.) That's like catnip. Also, I'm deeply indebted to terri-testing's theories for a lot of the background of this story. This was originally written for some challange or other that it failed utterly to satisfy, but one of the moderators (Sionna) said it was ok, so I'm using it as a test to try uploading.

respectfully submitted, by ericoides.


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